


and silence speaks for him and me.

by littlescienceybits (Gemz0rz)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: ...but is it?, F/M, Hatesex, also: how to vanilla? an essay., faint shades of d/s, her hair is just so good, i'm REALLY not explaining this well..., mild glove kink I guess?, that must be it, what am I doing writing het Phil all of a sudden...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemz0rz/pseuds/littlescienceybits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most strategic porn I have ever written. I can't decide if this is smut or chess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and silence speaks for him and me.

Phil took a moment to wipe his glasses, neat shoes standing still on her mat as he fished for the soft cloth in his pocket. The smudge corrected, he stowed the case away again, setting the frames back onto the bridge of his nose before rapping knuckles lightly against the polished door.

She knew he was there already; there was no point pretending she didn't. No one paid for a condo like this unless it came with stringent security measures. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd implemented half of them, actually.

"Director," she breathed, the door swinging open to reveal soft light and soft knit and bare feet and Rosalind, standing there with a book hanging from her fingers. She looked armourless... but he knew better.

"We've talked about this," he reprimanded amusedly. " _Phil_. We're off the clock."

"That may be true for you..." she hummed, stepping aside in wordless invitation. He took it, that self deprecating smile twisting his lips ever so slightly as he stepped inside. He bent to brush his lips against hers even as one hand popped free his suit jacket and the other cleverly plucked the book from her grasp.

"I didn't take you for a classicist," he noted, asking without asking. Her walls were barely shaken, the effect of the kiss gone from her face nearly as soon as the pressure was gone from her lips.

"Sentimental value," she volleyed.

"Is that right?" Phil looked pleased with himself as he turned up the cuffs of his shirt, knowing she wouldn't share more. It was a dangerous game he played, to indulge himself with filling in the blanks based on nothing but scant knowledge and imagination, and so he nodded toward the kitchen.

"Are you hungry? Dinner will take about 45." She'd assured him that she'd had the ingredients delivered earlier that day.

"We could still call something in."

"Your confidence is staggering."

He got a real smile from that one, and she set the book on the table, her footsteps almost silent without her signature heels.

"You get started, then. I just need to remember which cabinet the plates are in."

Phil just smiled. Rosalind might be a puzzle, but he knew his way around even the most foreign kitchen well enough. The first thing was the salmon -- it needed seasoning, and the over was set to preheat. He toasted the couscous in the meantime, chopping red pepper and cucumber to mix in later with a bit of dill and lemon. The salmon went in then, giving him the perfect amount of time to wilt the spinach.

"--Are the health benefits negated when you use butter and cream?" she murmured behind him, her cheek grazing the starched stripes of his shirt at the back of his shoulder. She'd never asked about the scar. Not out loud.

"Sure, but who wants it to taste like spinach?" he countered. Cooking -- or more precisely, having the time and the facility to cook properly -- put him in a good mood.

Her hands didn't hurt either. She was too precise to be overt, but her thumbs found the exact cords of tension along his back. He plated the salmon with only a single shiver, and even that was a victory.

"You work too hard," she accused, bending close to fit the bow of her lips against his ear as she poured the wine. It should have been white on account of the fish -- but she liked her reds. The glasses gave the room a pop of colour.

"Says the woman who's still on the clock," he replied, a mask of control locked firmly into place as he toasted her silently before taking a drink.

"Damn, that's..." He only knew a handful of things about wine. and 'good' didn't cut it in this instance. "...so much better than anything I've had in a while," he finished truthfully. He used to favour a splash of whiskey when he was off-duty, but he didn't have nights off any more.

"I'm glad," she smiled, pleased with herself -- and with him, it seemed. That was where they left it a they ate. There was no need for small talk between them; it filled the air but that was about it. He knew better to expect that either would lower their shields... but their swords could rest while they ate.

"May I...?" he offered when they were apparently through, gloved fingers reaching for the edge of her plate.

"Thank you," she allowed.

"Of course."

Rosalind watched as Phil gathered the utensils in a neat row on top of the plates, heading for the dishwasher. She could sit and watch and maybe learn half of something true all evening -- or she could get up and follow.

"Phil..." she questioned teasingly, looking for all the world like she was perfectly at home in the kitchen she never used.

"Rosalind," he answered fairly, already anticipating the way she crossed into his personal space, fitting neatly against his chest. "This is nice," he murmured, his flesh hand fingering the oversized collar of the cardigan she was wrapped in.

"Angora," she said after a long moment of searching his face. "I picked it up in Norway."

The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. He'd been once, years and years ago.

"It suits you."

She didn't thank him, didn't say anything in fact, just raised onto her tiptoes to catch his mouth in a kiss. She was much freer with her mouth when she wasn't speaking, and made a small noise of contentment (or victory, he was never really sure) when he parted his lips for her.

"So we're doing this now," he mused, colour pinking the tips of his ears as he peered down at her in that cloud of pale knit.

"If you'd stop talking and take off your tie we could be," she confirmed, the corners of her mouth twitching upward as she slid her hands to the blue silk, coaxing the knot expertly free. He let her. and later he would pretend that his shiver was from the feeling of silk slipping across his collar, and not from her fingers against the column of his neck.

Of all things he needed here, it was control.

"I think too many people let you have exactly what you demand," he murmured between them, catching her lips again as two hands slipped beneath the angora to steer her. The swell of her hips was obvious even through her dress and his glove, and he used the grasp to walk her backward through the archway of the kitchen and down the hall. Artwork hung there, not photos, and he ignored them all, manoeuvering her through the French doors of her bedroom.

"I think it's beneficial for most people to let someone else be in control," she breezed quietly, running hands down his arms and refusing to let her appreciation for them bloom across her face. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders, letting the soft bulk of her sweater fall down to rest at the foot of the bed before starting in on the evenly-spaced road of his shirt buttons.

"I'm not most people," he answered, watching her as she worked. She laughed then, short but genuine, taking his shirt and folding it neatly over the top of her vanity chair.

"You don't have to tell me that, Phil." Her smile was calm, and he had just enough time to envy her control before the short click of her nails danced across his belt buckle. The leather whispered through the metal, and he had barely stepped from his slacks when she whisked them aside to set them with his shirt.

"We can't have you looking rumpled in the morning," she grinned, the proverbial cat staring down the canary.

"I keep a change of suits in my office; no one will ever know," he answered levelly.

"So you haven't told anyone." A statement, not a question. She'd known the day they met that that was the kind of man he was.

"I don't kiss and tell."

Her nails grazed the thin cotton of his boxer briefs this time, and when he moved to capture her wrists, she didn't evade, her head tilting acquiescently as she turned to bare the zipper of her dress for him. Phil noted the Armani label as the coil unzipped past her hips, and when she turned back to him, the knowledge of how the dark grey underthings set off the soft glow of her skin made her smile smug. He moved to collect her dress, to fold it like she'd done with his things, but she stopped him, reaching out sharply to press fingers against his undershirt.

"Leave it; it goes with the dry-cleaning, anyhow."

Phil flickered his gaze down to her hand, then back up to her face.

"Not. most. people," he reminded her slowly, refusing to let her dictate every term. Instead, he closed the distance between them to kiss her. It was harder this time, the press of his lips insistent, and he stepped in to fit the cradle of his hips against hers, crowding her against the foot of the bed. Eventually she chose sitting instead of the deepening curve at the small of her back that it took to remain upright, and he smiled against her mouth, hooking fingers under the lace at her hips.

This time it was her turn to shiver. His fingers were warm, and the leather was supple.

She lifted to allow him to drag it down her legs, expecting him to return to add to the armada of kisses between them -- but instead he knelt, saying a silent thanks for the lush carpet in her bedroom.

"I see where you're going," she said to her ceiling, sounding very self-assured.

"I'm not sure you do," he cautioned lightly. She sat up on her elbows to peer down at him, regarding him curiously as he cradled one of her heels, dragging both thumbs up the arch of her foot. She made a noise he hadn't heard her make then, and rested back against the pristine duvet, her eyes mostly closed.

"You're a unique lover, Coulson," she murmured, her whisper a touch lower than usual.

" _Phil_ ," he insisted, honing in on the point that carried her weight when she balanced in her shoes. Her intake of breath was quick, and she nodded against the bedding in agreement.

"God," she hissed.

"That's giving even me too much credit," he noted dryly, switching feet. And when the bow of her body had unstrung itself just a little, he moved confidently upward, tracing the line of muscle up the back of her ankle to her calf until he rested between her knees. She said nothing this time, and his smile brushed the inside of her thigh before he leaned in to taste her.

He hadn't expected her to get off on relaxation, but she was wet and willing. Her fingers stretched against the bedding, fighting the instinct to curl themselves around the shell of his ear to guide him. Will won over instinct... for a moment. In the next, her nails traced his scalp through short hair, fine-tuning his direction. He allowed it considering the way the muscles in her thighs tensed tellingly.

It was easy then to ease two gloved fingers into her on an exhale, and he didn't pause again until she fluttered around his digits, insistent and reckless. He didn't say anything as he slid his fingers free, ignoring the shine of the leather against the duvet as he leaned down to gather her close. She didn't fight it, letting him take her weight as her breath evened.

In the next moment, she had a petite hand down the elastic of his boxers, her hand slow but unfalteringly sure.

"If we're done with the niceties..." she reasoned, peering up at him through the dark fringe of her hair that was somehow unmussed even now.

He could fix that.

"We are," he assured her silkily, letting her pull him close by the soft cotton of the undershirt he still wore. She slipped warm fingers beneath the hem, rolling it up and tossing it aside, her eyes daring him to react to the perceived vulnerability of having his scars on display.

He did shiver once -- but her bedroom was a touch chilly.

"I'm usually on top," she informed him with a half smile, her eyes still a little dreamy at the corners.

"By all means," he agreed, immediately switching places to settle back against the factory-new pillows she had stacked against the headboard. It was no hardship to watch her tuck her hair behind one ear with her left hand while she used her right to steady herself, easily straddling his lap. Before she could hide it, her lips parted in a moment of soft surprise as he slid against her, and Phil smiled humbly. 

"I don't need my ego stroked," he assured her, reaching to ease one strap of her bra down a freckled shoulder.

"You certainly don't," she agreed in a tone he would almost call warm. She wasted no time then, reaching down to position him exactly as she wanted and letting gravity do the rest. Phil couldn't help the breath that was punched out of him, and he slid a hand up the narrow ladder of her spine until he had enough purchase to gather her closer.

"Just move," she said -- but it sounded more like a request in the moment than it ever had before.

"Yes, ma'am," came his reply, less amused than aroused. He didn't try and kiss her again -- this was about a different kind of affection now. Instead he grasped her hips, flesh and leather equally warm against her bare skin, easing her into a quickening rhythm. Perfectly manicured fingers found purchase on his shoulders, and she started to move in earnest.

Eventually, Phil stopped holding back the snap of his hips, convinced she could take it. Her breathy sound against his neck was proof he'd been right, and he slipped his gloved hand lower to tease her over the edge. He knew how she eyed it sometimes, and he thought he'd figured it out -- until a pale hand clasped his wrist.

Rosalind's eyes were bright as she shook her head, redirecting his hand upward until the black leather contrasted with the pink flush of the column of her neck.

Blue eyes caught hers, his mouth twisted into a question -- but she anticipated it, giving him a curt nod even as she moved against him, directing his palm flush against her windpipe.

And then his fingers flexed.

The effect was electric, and he tightened another fraction almost without realising. Rosalind's hips canted forward, snapping to meet his match for match. Her eyes never left him, and he used his new leverage to thrust harder.

She blinked.

And then again.

And this time her eyes stayed closed, the muscles of her thighs jumping as she gasped silently, grasping at the bionic trunk of his wrist as she came.

Phil kept his hold until he followed her, and immediately his fingers loosened as the muscles of his frame went slack.

Neither one of them spoke for a long moment, the only sound the sharp intake of Rosalind's breath. He had a new appreciation for the pillows behind him, and she kept company with the dark behind her eyelids as her heartbeat evened.

Eventually it was her who moved, effortlessly pulling on her usual mask.

"I should get cleaned up," she smiled knowingly, excusing herself to the adjacent bathroom.

"I'll get us a glass of water," he said in agreement, sliding easily into his boxers, ignoring the way the cotton stuck.

Rosalind just hummed in reply from behind closed doors, and Phil headed toward the kitchen. He didn't have much time.

Sewn into the hem of his boxers was a pocket, and in the pocket was a thin film he smoothed against her glass from earlier. When he lifted it away, it carried her fingerprints. A similar kit collected DNA from the half moon of where her lips had kissed the rim, and he stowed his secrets away hurriedly to pour two glasses, slowing his steps on his return so as to not appear in a hurry.

"Thoughtful of you," Rosalind mused, now wrapped in a steel grey robe, accepting the glass gratefully. She watched him, chin just a little too high to be casual, daring him to mention any of what had just happened between them.

But Phil just smiled.

"Practicality is all," he answered, crawling between sheets with a higher thread count than his pay grade.

On his glass on the nightstand, his gloved hand left no fingerprints of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I write Tasha, I love Phil as the honeypot for once. This may or may not have a sequel, depending on where AoS steers us -- we just have so little of Ros, and I don't want to steer her toward OC territory.
> 
> So... we'll see. =)


End file.
